rfectly kept
secret, and that not an evil one. After all, we have condemned it
unheard.

Both witches could talk a magic tongue, and make themselves mutually
understood. Neither knew the other's natural tongue. But when our witch
noticed several large ferocious tears rolling down her opponent's
cheeks, she was able, by means of magic, to say: "Great Scott, my good
person, what are you crying for?"

"I am not crying," replied the German witch. "I would not allow one tear
of mine to fall upon and water one possible grain of wheat in this
accursed country of yours. Certainly I am not crying."

"Accursed country?" echoed the astounded English witch. "How d'you
mean--accursed? This is England, you know. England hasn't done anything
accursed. Aren't you muddling it up with Germany?"

"England is the World Enemy," said the German, evidently pleased to meet
someone to whom this information was fresh. "Throughout the ages she has
been the Robber State, crushing the weaker nations, adding to her own
wealth by treachery, and now forcing this war of aggression upon her
peace-loving neighbours."

Our witch laughed. She was forgetting her danger. "This is really rather
funny," she said. "Do you know what's happened? You've been reading the
_Daily Mail_ and misunderstanding it. The whole of that quotation
applied to Germany, not England. It's Germany that's being naughty. You
made a mistake, but never mind, I won't repeat it."

The German took no notice of this. The past three years had made her an
adept in taking no notice.

"And now," she added. "After all these weary months of hoping, and
long-distance broomstick practice, and of parachute practice, and of
conflict with narrow officialdom, I have come--and this is the result. I
am separated from my broomstick, which has all the germ-bombs hanging
from its collar--the germs are those of dissension and riot--I am
marooned upon an English cloud, with no enemy at my mercy but a paltry
and treacherous non-combatant----"

"At your mercy," breathed our witch, remembering. She looked up. The
broomsticks were closer now, and through the breathless air, amidst the
dream-like firing of the guns below, she could hear the difficult
gasping of the hard-pressed Harold, still fighting bravely but with
hardly a twig on his head.

The tide of space was coming in. The edge of the cloud was barely six
inches from her hand. Our witch's mind overflowed with the thought of
invasions and the c